


What I Wouldn't Do

by lonelyprinces



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Established Relationship, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Kyouya does his best to be a source of comfort even though he's unaccustomed to that role, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Tragedy, Young Love, Yuzuru proves a disappointing father yet again, kyomaki, kyotama - Freeform, mother/son relationships, tamakyo - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 21:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5020567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyprinces/pseuds/lonelyprinces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot, Tamakyo. Kyouya had never thought, in the entirety of their relationship, that he'd be the one providing the warmth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Wouldn't Do

The phone buzzed angrily in Tamaki's open palm, but the host king couldn't bring himself to answer. The austere picture of his father on the center screen ought to have warranted excitement; the fact that Yuzuru Suoh rarely called suggested otherwise. Perhaps Grandmother was angry and wanted a go-between. Yes, that seemed the most likely explanation.

With a shrug of defeat, Tamaki answered.

The line was crackly, Yuzuru's voice muffled. The cell service couldn't be _that_ bad, could it? Even halfway across the globe, Tamaki's father had access to the most cutting-edge technology.

"Tamaki." It wasn't just the line that was crackling, it was the voice. Slurred, almost, barely registering.

"Father?"

"Listen, Tamaki, I'm in France right now, and—"

"France!?" Tamaki yelped. A second ago his heart had been still; it now hammered painfully against his chest. "Why—"

"Tamaki, your mother is dead."

Tamaki couldn't recall his exact reaction in those next moments. He may have begun chattering confusedly, his tongue may have turned to lead. Either scenario was equally plausible.

"It came as a surprise to me, too," Yuzuru said, forcing out each word as best he could. "I had received word that she was doing well, but when I visited I discovered she had been removed to tiny village in the South. The hospital was in ruins, and she was already in such a state of decline. Tamaki—"

Silence.

"Tamaki, my son, I will be back in Japan in thirteen hours. Perhaps it would have been better if I had told you in person—" Yuzuru hated himself for his idiocy. Tamaki was prone to highly emotional reactions; reciting the details of Anne-Sophie's death like a mantra was perhaps the stupidest thing he could have done. Yuzuru knew, deep down, that the phone call had been due to his own weakness—he couldn't face his agonized son, those big, bulbous tears. Not that soft-cheeked face, exactly like Anne-Sophie's. Yuzuru liked to imagine it might have been easier had Tamaki not so strongly resembled his mother, but he knew he was making excuses. It would have been hard either way.

"Tamaki, I am deeply sorry." Yuzuru knew he needed to end the call, and soon, for both of their sanities. "Go and speak with the household staff, will you? Do not isolate yourself. Not now." Tamaki lived for personal connections and interactions, but he was prone to bearing burdens by himself. If Yuzuru could get anything right in this moment, it would be that he suggested a means of support for his son.

"Yes, of course," Tamaki finally answered, his voice level and robotic. Another bad sign; his son simply did not speak in a monotone. Each of his expressions were full of life and emotion.

Yuzuru rattled off some fatherly endearments, ending the call and breathing a sigh of relief. Why was he so pathetic, so cowardly? Why couldn't he be the source of comfort his son so desperately needed?

He would be home in thirteen hours, perhaps sooner. The damage was done, but he could still redeem himself.

**\-----**

Tamaki wasn't entirely sure how he was still standing upright. His legs were cement blocks, his hair thick in his face. He felt very little and yet he was in tune with each and every sense—the most microscopic of itches, the sliver of cold down the small of his back, the tears leaking, cold and salty, out of his eyes.

He needed to walk. Walk and walk and walk. The screened window in his bedroom was half-open, only encouraging him further. He stepped out onto the balcony, toes chilled against the cement ground. The wind was sharp and crisp; his cheeks burned furiously. But of course he couldn't think of these things, not now, not really.

He had to _walk_ , after all.

**\-----**

Kyouya slammed the phone down furiously. _Damn the man! He's so poised and clinical when he tells_ me _but he can't even face his son. How can he be so_ weak?

"I don't think he took it well," Yuzuru had said meekly. "It might be helpful if you go and see him."

Of _course_ Kyouya planned to see him, but not on Yuzuru's terms. He couldn't care less about giving that man comfort. Not after his slew of poor decisions: abandoning Tamaki and his mother, playing his son like a pawn left and right, leaving awkward phone calls when Tamaki had no one he could easily confide in. No, Kyouya would visit the Suoh mansion, but it would be completely, irrevocably for Tamaki. His best friend, the love of his life, the boy who needed a friend, a companion more than ever. Kyouya wasn't sure he was the man for the job, but that hardly mattered. Determining his king's needs would come first, the action plan much later.

Upon reaching Suoh Mansion #2, Kyouya determined that the servants knew nothing (why else should one of the maids encourage him to "go on up and visit the young master" with such a carefree wave of her hand?). Nevermind that Kyouya had no business visiting Tamaki at eight in the morning, with sunlight streaming through the foggy windows. Stranger things had occurred.

Tamaki's room was completely frozen; Kyouya soon determined that the screened window had been left open. Was he sitting on the balcony? In the dead of winter? What might have normally constituted as Tamaki's idiocy filled Kyouya's heart with dread.

Worse yet, Tamaki wasn't on the balcony in question. Rather, a series of long, slender footprints led down the side steps, headed God knows where. The prints were those of bare feet.

Kyouya wasn't one to fly into a state of panic, but it was substantially harder to remain calm and collected. Tamaki would have called him, right? If he were capable of reasonable thought?

But of course he wasn't. Certainly not now.

Kyouya peered over the edge of the balcony. The footprints grew fainter with distance, but they most definitely led into the small alcove of cherry blossom trees just beyond the property. The branches, the snow, and the sky were white and blinding, the footsteps carved out black spots against the pristine earth. Kyouya's chest burned.

He made his way down the stairs, following those fragile footprints into the depths of the forest. Only when Kyouya had travelled at least a mile did he dare call out Tamaki's name. The sound echoed pitifully in the air: _Tamaki, Tamaki, Tamaki!_ Did he really sound that afraid?

Kyouya's fists clenched, his teeth grinding furiously. Why had Tamaki been so _stupid?_ His state of shock be damned; Kyouya had been a phone call, a text message away! Why was he out in the middle of nowhere on a cold winter morning without shoes on? His concern went far beyond mother-henning; Kyouya was agonized, helpless—furious with himself, with Yuzuru, with everything in the world that was making his beautiful boy unhappy.

When Kyouya came upon Tamaki, at last, the angry thoughts of before hardly registered. He was sitting at the base of a tree, curled in on himself as he leaned against the trunk. He wore an oversized sweater and pajama bottoms but his feet were predictably bare, blue and frigid, the toes shriveled in on themselves. Tears froze, clear and glistening, on the bridge of his nose and the nape of his neck. His eyes, typically bright and sparkling, stared blankly, as colorless as rotting plums. Save for the soft, labored breathing, Kyouya had never seen his love look so lifeless in the entire time he had known him.

"Tamaki," Kyouya choked out, staggering forward and taking the boy by the shoulders. "Tamaki, what are you doing out here? Your father called; I—"

" _Kyou_ -ya?" Tamaki's fingers clutched at the Shadow King's sleeve, curling around the fabric like a child's. As he grew accustomed to the warmth emanating from Kyouya's body his grasp grew even more firm.

"You're freezing," Kyouya said, hoisting Tamaki to his feet. He chastised himself for not thinking to bring an extra pair of shoes; Tamaki looked as though he were about to collapse. "If I give you my socks, will you be able to walk?"

"I think so," Tamaki murmured, after a long while.

"I can't lift you; you're far too heavy," Kyouya murmured. "But if you lean up against my shoulder—"

Tamaki nodded. They made slow and steady progress back towards the estate, Tamaki's weight only growing more pronounced against Kyouya's frame as they continued. When they reached the edge of the forest, Tamaki's strength was failing him completely. Kyouya, with a substantial effort, hiked Tamaki up onto his back and carried him the rest of the way as the host king's arms wound around Kyouya's neck, clinging for dear life.

"Your feet," Kyouya said, depositing Tamaki into the nearest chair and bolting all the windows firmly. "They're so blue. Not frostbitten, but—" Kyouya hated himself for knowing so little about such medical conditions; the entire Ootori name was based on these practices, after all! "You're so cold."

Tamaki was himself too confused to recognize the limpness of Kyouya's statements. "I suppose you're right," he murmured, letting out what almost sounded like a playful laugh. But no, that couldn't be possible.

Kyouya's movements became even more robotic than ever. All he knew, all he could focus on, was getting Tamaki warm again. Stepping over to the private bathroom, filling the bathtub with water until steam rose in undulating waves. Removing Tamaki's clothing, piece by piece, until every inch of him was revealed, pale and small and vulnerable. Helping him into the tub—first one leg, then the other—watching and waiting as the air grew balmy, as Tamaki's limbs were infused with warmth.

"This—this was a good idea," Tamaki murmured, staring down at the milky bathwater, now nearly up to his chin. "How'd you think of this, anyway, Kyouya?"

"It was Haruhi's idea, actually," Kyouya said, wiping the steam from his glasses with an air of distraction.

"What?"

"I remember her mentioning that her father used to give her baths when she was younger, especially after losing her mother." Kyouya froze, realizing what he'd said. Had he _really_ been that dense? He hadn't thought, not for an instant—of all things—

To Kyouya's complete shock, Tamaki laughed. "Good old Haruhi," he said, smiling pleasantly to himself.

"Tamaki," Kyouya said, knowing that they couldn't keep skirting around the issue forever, "I _am_ here for you, you know. Always. Neither of us is any good at talking about our feelings, that much is obvious. But nothing has changed between us. I'm still here, and I'm not leaving."

Tamaki met Kyouya's eyes, and it only occurred to them both in that moment that they'd been avoiding looking at each other. Kyouya's gaze was firm and adamant, Tamaki's wide and full of wonder.

"Thank you," Tamaki acknowledged. "To be honest, I'm still processing everything."

"There's no rush. But I do want to know what I can do for you. Especially now."

"Just ... stay. Please."

The words were so simple, so direct, and in that moment Kyouya knew he would never— _could_ never—leave. He kneeled at the edge of the tub, leaned over and pulled Tamaki close, not caring that his clothes were being soaked through. He had, in the span of the past hour, forgotten the feeling of Tamaki's body against his own, warmth emanating off of him in waves, ensconcing them both like a quilt.

 _Of course,_ Kyouya thought, knowing he had never planned otherwise, not for a second. _Anything, Tamaki. My love, my prince, my beautiful fool._ In fact, to think of what he _wouldn't_ do scared him a little.

Tamaki would talk eventually. He would talk and talk and talk, about what a wonderful person his mother had been and about what a good friend Kyouya was. But they both knew that wouldn't be for a long while.

For now, the only thing they could do was focus on making it through the next few hours. Kyouya would find Tamaki a fresh set of pajamas and dress him in them with care, would cover those poor feet in the thickest socks imaginable. They would stretch out in Tamaki's bed; he would pull the covers over them both as Tamaki clung to him with an instinctive grasp. He would listen to his love's ragged breaths as Tamaki counted the beats of Kyouya's fluttering heart. Their faces would press together as Kyouya kissed his love's cheeks, his chest, his neck, his mouth. He couldn't do much, but he could do this.

" _Mon amour,_ " Tamaki breathed. He continued murmuring incoherent endearments, but Kyouya couldn't focus on each one individually. Each word floated above them, soothing and sensual and soft.

Tamaki's father was due to return in less than six hours, but neither of them took notice—for Yuzuru Suoh had never been their lifeline. Not when they had each other, thousands of times over. Not when they had _this._

" _Mon amour,_ " Kyouya repeated, the French stiff on his tongue.

They were going to be okay. Not now, but eventually. Kyouya had never felt so certain in all his life.


End file.
